


Poor Edward's poor guide to romance

by plastic_swinebones_and_lead207



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: F/M, Light fingers spoilers, More tags to be added as I progress, Poor Edward is a warning tag in himself, Possesive behaviour, light fingers, moon-milk, no poor edward, nor is reminding them of the time you buried them alive, sending people hearts is not a romantic gift, yandere Poor Edward
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23735386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastic_swinebones_and_lead207/pseuds/plastic_swinebones_and_lead207
Summary: Serena Appleton is a prolific author in the Neath. She came here to follow up on a lead of a diamond the size of a cow. Poor Edward is smitten (an effect of Moon-Milk) and willing to do anything to keep her.
Relationships: player (Fallen London)/poor Edward, poor Edward/ original character, poor Edward/original female character
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	1. a long awaited return

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! this is my first fanfic in the Fallen London fandom. I hope you'll enjoy! Please tell me what you think (*^▽^*)!

The fire in my office is dying down as I read through the collected poems of Serena Appleton. A year has passed since she left town in the Market Beast. I think back to our last meeting, if it could be called that. Along with Jasper and Frank, I had found Clarabella and Dr Vaughan, then waited. We had set it up so my Serena would have no means of sneaking up via the shore. I had underestimated her; she had simply slipped under the peleglin waves of the unterzee and snuck up behind. When I close my eyes I see her face clear as if it were but yesterday. Her determined scowl, dripping hair clinging to her face, that light in her eyes as she smashed my bottle of moon-milk across my face.

I know the moon-milk caused most of my love toward her, but I like to think that it was already happening, that it was simply my last push. I held her once, before I knew to appreciate her. She is up amongst the false stars now, with her sharp wit and brilliant eyes. Sighing, I put aside her poems and pick up my pen. This will be my one-hundred-and-thirteenth letter to her adress. Logically I know that she cannot read the letters now, that sending more is of little use, but what is logic compared to the heart? My heart is with her now, forever. I'd give her every heart if I could. There is little I wouldn't do for her. It scares me a little, to be honest, how thouroughly I love her, but how could I not? I stare at the letter, scrawl ”Come back to me, my love, my dearest, my Serena”, at the bottom. While folding it up and putting it in an envelope I lay my eyes upon the half-gallon jar on the shelf wherein my parents' tangled hearts float in their murky green water. Having long since learned it by heart, I write Serena's adress upon the envelope, then seal it with a drop of red wax before attatching the stamp. I call for Nichols, the page boy, who soon pokes his head through the door. ”Have this delivered to the post,” I say, holding the envelope out to him. He takes it and reads the adress. ”Another one sir? She's” I interrupt him with a glare. He bows and exits the room.

”Decay exists as extant form of life” reads the first line of one of Serena's earliest works, an epic poem about fungus. Before her departure she was an excellent and prolific autor. I hope she still is, that the roof of the Neath and the false stars feed her wonderous imagination. Amongst the court and the university, her philosophical tale of the future, Knocking at Heaven's Door, is the most popular. In the bawdy bars and gutters of Spite, her penny dreadful about Jack-of-Smiles is the favourite. My own favourite is one of her shorter poems. The poem is not about me, per se, but it is adjacent to me; I like to think that it's adressed to me. It begins with the line: ”My coffin is lined with velvet” and details a rebirth of sorts. Maybe it is to taunt me, to say, 'look at how I overcame you,' but I love it nevertheless; carry a copy of it in my breastpocket. A part of her soul, her heart is in her writings and I keep them all close at hand. Until she returns, it is all I can do to not lose myself.

Three-hundred-and-seventy-one days after I last saw her, Serena comes back to London. At a party in Ladybones road a disheveled young woman steps through a mirror, to the shock of the guests. Some recognize her, and the rumors are abuzz. Less than half an hour later, Nichols knocks on my office door to tell me the news. I whisper her name with a smile, she is returned, come back; my marvellous Serena is come back to _me_. I dismiss Nichols without further word, and set to writing. ”My heart is yours.” I need her to understand that, understand how much I would give to her, that I would give her every heart if I could. The jar containing my parents' hearts catch my eyes. I will start with giving them to her, those hearts that I have kept from my days in the Orphanage. ”I would give you all the hearts in the world, if I could.” It is imperative that she understand this. ”I would turn the stars to hearts and lay them at your door in a beating heap.” With this letter I shall send her my treasured jar. ”See; in the jar. These are my parents' hearts. I kept them since I was an Orphanage boy, pitiful, wretched, like the rest of them.” I do not like to think of those days, but they are a reminder of how far I've come. ”But I pulled myself up by my heartstrings, didn't I? And now my heart is yours and your heart shall be mine.” She will understand, in time, understand how utterly I love her and she will love me. I will make sure of it. I place the letter in an envelope, seal it with red wax in the shape of my mask. Then I wrap it and the jar in brown wrapping paper before tying a red ribbon around it. I write Serena's adress upon it, attatch a stamp and then I call for Nichols, who soon pokes his head through the door. I hold the package out for him. ”Deliver this to the post. Tell them to handle it with care, the content is fragile.” Nichols takes it and reads the adress. I can see a question forming in his mind. ”Now!” I snap at him. He hurries out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts of Serena. Oh wonderful, beautiful Serena. I shall see her soon enough, hold her, never again let go.


	2. Home sweet home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serena comes home

I've heard it said that it is less difficult to return from Parabola than find your way there. This does not mean it is easy. Far above, the sun beats down upon me. Did we really stand upon the surface of that thing? I continue walking, though my feet are blistering. For how long have I walked? Days, weeks, months? Time feels strange, here in the is not. I have been to the borderlands of Parabola, the Mirror-Marshes, a couple of times, but this place makes even less sense. I walk onwards, eating cherries I pick from branches. I know that they're edible and filling. When I first see the orchids, my heart rejoices. I'm closer now, closer home. ”Where did _you_ come from?” I look around for the source of the voice. A black panther lies atop a treebranch, her fur glistening in the light. ”It's a long story. I'm headed back home to London now,” I tell her. ”Well, best of luck to you!” She reminds me of the alley-cats in Spite. I wave her good-bye and continue. It is not long before I see a mirror-frame. Behind it I can see couples dancing. I smile as I step through it, to the shock of the guests. Everyone turns to look at me, my hair a tangle, my dress stained and in some places ripped. ”Greetings, everyone. I apologize for the intrusion, I shall be going immediately.” I curtsey and make my way to the exit, uncomfortably conciouss of the stares and whispers. ”Miss Serena Appleton?” asks one of the dancers. ”Yes, as a matter of fact, I am her. I once again apologize for taking up your time. Do carry on,” I smile at them. The room is abuzz with hushed conversations. Once more I head for the exit, when a young man approaches me with a book and pen. ”Would you sign this copy of Knocking at Heaven's Door, Miss?” Another asks me for a dance, a third to tell them where I've been, and do I know that I've been gone for over a year? A fourth asks what happened to my dress, a fifth if I would like a bottle of wine, and have I heard that a devil has been elected mayor?. ”I really must be going, my friends,” I say to them, with my most winning smile. They let me go then, waving at me as I leave.

Ladybones road, how I've missed it! I twirl around in the street, breathe in the cool and misty air. There are cobblestones beneath my feet now. Joyous I walk through London. An urchin picks my pocket; I ruffle their hair. A rat asks me why I'm so happy and I tell her that I've been away a long time; that I've longed for London. She and I talk for a while before parting ways. I head towards the south east. My lodgings are not in London proper, but a mile south-east of it in an old temple dating from the third city. From where I am now it's an hour's walk. My feet still hurt. I'll have to get ointements for them. A part of me wants to take off my shoes and stockings, but I don't want to walk barefoot in the mud. The water of the stolen river glistens in the lamplight. I pause at the bridge, taking a seat on a bench. I look towards the spires of the Bazaar. ”Greetings,” says a man with burning eyes. ”Do you have any souls you'd like to sell?” he continues. ”Oh, no thank you Sir.” I head onward. The walk to my lodgings is pleasant, only marred by the blisters of my feet. When I arrive, I am greatful. An avalanche of letters lies upon my doorstep. By God, this is going to take a while to sort through.

After taking off shoes and stockings, applying bandages and ointments to my feet, pulling my hair into a braid, changing my dress, and giving my cat, Lacerare, some food (has she stayed here the entire time?) I set to sorting through my letters. There's multiple invitations to dinner, a couple of Mayoral notices (one of which tells that the title has shifted from Mayor to Lord Mayor), a big package of lamplighter beeswax, some letters praising my work, some letters bashing my works and some about the recent gossip of the town. Most alarming are the loveletters. I'm no stranger to recieving such; I have recieved ten in total which I keep in a box. These ones are different. Sure, there are a couple of normal ones. But the rest? Over a hundred loveletters, all in the same handwriting, and the contents; well: ”I held you once, but I let you go then. My biggest mistake. A mistake that when next I see you Serena, when next I hold you, I will not repeat,” reads one. A chill goes up my spine. I put all of those in a pile. At least I won't want for fuel for a while. Lacerare lays herself upon my desk. ”Where have you been? I've been starving!” She complains. I smile at her. ”I went to the roof of the Neath. And you're always starved. Did you hunt much?” She meows in response, before grooming herself. I take out my journal and pen and write what I have to do next. Dr Vaughan and Clarabella are in Parabola and will need a proper shelter built. To get to Parabola I will need to recruit a glassman, and I'll need honey. Honey is easy enough to get at the Bazaar, and I could ask at Mahogany Hall if they've seen a glassman lately. A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts. I rise and open it. Outside stands a postman, carrying a package. ”Package for Miss Appleton,” he says. ”That's me.” ”Careful with the contents, they're fragile.” He hands me the package. I thank him. ”You're the one who wrote Knocking at Heaven's Door, right? My son loves that book.” ”I did,” I tell him with a smile. ”I'm glad your son likes it.” ”Goodbye then, Miss Appleton,” he says and waves. I wave back at him, before going inside. The package is big, roughly half a gallon. Inside is a jar containing a cloudy green liquid. Lacerare hisses at it. When I hold it to the light, I see two swollen dark lumps, tangled together, inside. As the liquid sloshes they _thunk_ gruesomly against the glass. I set the jar down upon my desk. Then I turn to the envelope lying upon the wrapping paper. The wax seal is in the shape of a mournful red face. It's the seal of Poor Edward. I open it and stare at the letter inside. It's the same handwriting. The same handwriting as the more than a hundred loveletters. ”My heart is yours,” it begins. ”I would give you all the hearts in the world, if I could. I would turn the stars to hearts and lay them at your door in a beating heap. See; in the jar. These are my parents' hearts. I kept them since I was an Orphanage boy, pitiful, wretched, like the rest of them. But I pulled myself up by my heartstrings, didn't I? And now my heart is yours and your heart shall be mine.” Oh dear God. Why on earth is Poor Edward, the man who buried me alive, sending me loveletters? And what on earth possesed him to send me his parent's hearts? When people say that hearts are romantic, they mean paper cutouts, or drawings. Not actual ones. I put Poor Edward's loveletters and the jar in a box which I cover with a blanket. I don't have time to worry about it; Clarabella and Dr Vaughan rely upon me now. I need to hire a glassman.

It is suprisingly easy to hire a glassman in London. It takes him a week (during which two more letters arrive from Poor Edward) and leaves his eyes sunken; he looks to have aged ten years, but he finds a safe place. Gathering the materials needed is not that hard either, though gathering the memories of lights we need is tedious. Eventually though, he and I manage to set up a base camp in Parabola with a silver tree in its center. After that, I am off to find Clarabella and Dr Vaughan in the depths of the emerald jungle and bring them to the safety of the camp, with its tents and mirrortraps. Memories of light guide my way as I sneak past the dangers. Eventually I find Dr Vaughan and Clarabella and lead them back. They establish themselves in a big domed tent in the center. ”The pregnancy is stalled ,” Dr Vaughan tells me out of Clarabella's earshot. ”It's not in trouble, but nor is it progressing. A moon-miser can only be born when the stars align.” I pause. ”What does that mean in practical terms?” I ask, to which she scowls. ”I wish I knew. Especially since we're in this dream-land. Perhaps it might not even matter over here. That's just another scrap of knowledge floating around in my head from my first expedition to the ceiling. Damn, if I could only remember more...” She snaps her fingers. ”When I flew back down to London, the Ministry of Public Decency arrested me and kept me in a cell for months, interrogating me on what I'd seen up there. They confiscated half my notes. Perhaps that holds the key to unlocking my memory,” she says with renewed determination. ”Then I suppose I better go and steal them,” I say to her. She nods. ”They ought be filed away somewhere in the Hookman House.” I smile at her. ”Until next time!” I say with a wave and go widdershins around a the back of a certain boulder, through a mirror, until I feel the cool sensation of breaking through the surface of the water and I stand in my lodgings, face to face with Lacerare, feasting upon a lizard. I smile at her. I have a heist to plan.


End file.
